


lover of the light

by justwaitaclocktick



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, M/M, Oral Sex, because i made up this magic shit and also i have no idea if i'm good at writing porn sooooo, i hope you like this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-07
Updated: 2014-02-07
Packaged: 2018-01-11 11:38:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1172617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justwaitaclocktick/pseuds/justwaitaclocktick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“No,” Stiles says. Derek doesn’t understand. “No, it’s not normal. He glows. I feel like he could spontaneously combust.” </p>
<p>“It wouldn’t surprise me,” Derek says.</p>
            </blockquote>





	lover of the light

Jackson’s body is like the sun.

It’s radiant, Stiles thinks, and not just because of the way the daylight seems to cling to all the peaks of his sharp, angular face. It’s like his jaw line—damn that jaw line, nobody just looks like that—defies all shadow, like it’s cutting the air in half.

“Stiles,” Scott says, nudging him (and really, it’s a wonder that Harris hasn’t separated them yet because Scott is the only one trying and Stiles is the only one who can actually sort of understand that the fuck a stoichiometry even is). “Stiles, he’s gonna see you.” And Stiles almost tells Scott to let it happen, but if he’s being real, there’s no way Stiles could possibly live down the humiliation of Jackson knowing that his favourite pastime is analyzing his face like there’s some big secret hidden in it.

Stiles wrenches his eyes away from Jackson’s seat by the window just in time to avoid Danny’s gaze. Stiles can practically hear Danny roll his eyebrows and turn back to the equation Harris is working out on the board as though anyone could possibly care how many grams of oxygen are required for 30 grams of sucrose. (“Why didn’t I switch into AP chem with Lydia?” Danny is thinking, Stiles is sure. “I’m surrounded by morons.”)

__________

It’s a little after two in the morning, after his dad has come home and is passed out in his bed, when Stiles’ phone goes off, Scott’s name on the display.

“What?” Stiles hisses. “Do you have any idea what time it is—”

“Oh, be quiet, I knew you’d be awake,” Scott says. Stiles looks away from his computer screen as though Scott could see it.

“Fine, yeah. What do you want?”

“It’s Jackson. He’s—well, I think Derek’s given him the bite.” Scott pauses here, waiting, perhaps, for the string of expletives he expects from the other end. Stiles is silent. “Allison just texted me. She heard her dad talking about how Jackson’s been spending a lot of time around the Hale house.”

Stiles swallows. “No way,” he says. “Jackson’s not that much of an idiot.”

Stiles chooses to ignore this (admittedly very distinct) possibility and says goodnight to Scott. He finally shuts his computer down and rolls into bed. It’s Friday. He won’t see Jackson until Monday; then he’ll know.

__________

His blood is too hot.

Jackson lies there in his bed on top of his black silk sheets. Normally they are cool to the touch; now they are doing nothing for his rising temperature.

The thing is, he hasn’t shifted. He’s a little faster, maybe, and his eyes sometimes flash an unnatural, electric blue, but the last he checked, he hasn’t sprouted fangs or claws. Granted, the full moon won’t be for a while, but he was promised a change.

Jackson doesn’t have time for promises not kept. 

The fan above his head is on its highest setting; it creates a low buzzing sound as it slices the air. Jackson wonders what exactly is going on inside his body—the chemicals involved, what kind of magic bullshit is twisting around his blood vessels and turning the heat up to scorching. It’s the sort of thing Lydia would be interested in if he hadn’t essentially told her to fuck off (and thinking about the way her candy-red lips pursed together and her eyebrows formed accusatory peaks, the way her hair was done like it needed a crown, the way he thought he might be able to hear her heartbeat jackrabbit—it makes his breath hitch).

Jackson flings the sheets from his body and slips out of bed. Moving allows him the briefest of reprieves from the unbearable heat inside of him, so he yanks a pair of shorts onto his hips, wipes the sheen of sweat forming on his bare abdomen away, and heads out the door.

Jackson runs for an hour before he realises his feet are bare, with bits of black asphalt wedged between his toes, chalky from the road dust after he ran out of sidewalks. There are no cuts, but he begins to feel a dull ache in his left calcaneus. 

He is no longer horribly warm, but now he is trembling (it’s something wrong inside me, he insists as he turns around to go home. Something wrong with the bite, not me. It doesn’t occur to him that it’s because he is sixteen and alone, almost naked in the middle of the street and exhausted).

He has to find out what’s wrong with him.

__________

“Shit,” Scott says as he slides into his seat behind Stiles. “He’s done it. He got the bite. I can smell it on him.”

“Yeah,” Stiles says, glaring at Jackson as he enters the room in his damn pristine white sweater. He doesn’t know how but there is just something off—the tension of Jackson’s jaw, the way his eyes reflect the light—that tells him he’s changed.

He’s still the prettiest boy Stiles has ever seen.

“Stop your fantasy for ten seconds and tell me what the fuck is going on.”

Stiles looks up to see Lydia in the seat before him, eyes drilling into him. Her lips are plum-coloured, her hair pulled back, and Stiles knows she’s done playing.

“Someone sits there, I think,” Scott says from behind Stiles.

“They’ll live,” Lydia says. She shrugs her bag off of her shoulder and looks at it like it’s a criminal when it slumps over instead of standing straight. “Peter Hale is dead and Jackson breaks up with me? He’s being ridiculous. And you can’t tell me whatever is wrong with is face is a new moisturizer. His eyes are wrong.”

Jackson looks tired, but his eyes are bright. Where they are usually no more alert than the next exhausted teenager, today they seem open wider, thirsting for the light. They seem to move more quickly, almost targeting movement before it happens.

“Derek Hale,” Scott says, dropping to a whisper as their teacher comes into the room. “He gave Jackson the bite.”

Lydia taps her foot impatiently and pulls out her notes. “Yes, obviously. But I don’t recall you ever acting like a freak after it happened to you, even if I didn’t know it had happened.”

She’s right.

__________

“Derek!” Stiles calls from the edge of the wood. He clings to a massive, gnarled oak, looking out at the clearing which the ash-and-dust skeleton of the Hale house inhabits.

“Derek Hale!” he calls again, softer, but it doesn’t matter. “Literally what is the point of this, I know you can hear me.”

“The same can’t be said of you, luckily enough,” whispers a rough, dark voice into Stiles’ ear. Stiles squawks and falls backward onto his ass. Derek stands above him, smirk firmly in place. He doesn’t offer a hand to help Stiles up.

As he clambers up from the mossy ground, Stiles says, “Listen, jackass, I don’t know what you did to Jackson but—”

“I did nothing to Jackson that he didn’t ask for.” 

“He looks like he’s dying.” Jackson looks like there’s too much sun inside of him, but Stiles doesn’t say that. 

Derek’s corded skin shimmers softly in the dappled sunlight. “That’s not my problem.” His eyes are low and dark, just avoiding Stiles’ gaze. “I told him it might kill him. He rejects the concept of pack, but it still claws at him. One night I found him passed out in front of the house.” He points to the spot.

“No,” Stiles says. Derek doesn’t understand. “No, it’s not normal. He glows. I feel like he could spontaneously combust.” 

“It wouldn’t surprise me,” Derek says. 

Stiles blinks and he’s gone, leaving behind only the rustle of leaves and the faint, faint scent of ash.

Fuck.

__________

Jackson unlocks the door to his house and squints a little at the sunlight streaming through the kitchen windows. His eyes refocus and pick up on the golden dust motes floating within them. He watches them move, lazily drifting in the ebb and flow of the air current. He hangs his back on the back of a chair, thinking that he ought to talk to Allison about their group project—it’s Friday, he’s not about to do shit—and promptly collapses.

It’s like the wind has been knocked out of him, like a lacrosse ball has been lobbed into his abdomen, except his eyes are burning and his gums ache. He stretches his jaw as far as possible, mandible trembling, and he feels his canines extend into fangs.

He cries out, a yelp laced with a horrifying roar several octaves lower, and reaches for his phone. He shaking fingers and burning eyes make it difficult to navigate but he eventually reaches the contacts log. He doesn’t know who to call, but his heart is pounding and he’s afraid he’s going to have a heart attack.

He scrolls and scrolls and settles on the only person who might know what they’re doing.

__________

Stiles finds Jackson passed out on his kitchen floor. Jackson’s kitchen is incredibly bright, all stainless steel and whitewashed wood like a small explosion had gone off and bleached everything in its heat.

Stiles falls to his knees and removes Jackson’s jacket. He’s breathing slowly, deeply, and his face is relaxed. Stiles extends a delicate finger and fumbles trying to lift an eyelid, but Jackson doesn’t wake.

His iris is a bright, bright blue.

Stiles pulls out his phone (thank god Coach made them all exchange numbers a million years ago) and calls Scott to make sure he’s on his way. Allison picks up.

“Scott went to Derek, Stiles. I’m on the way.”

And Scott going to Derek is going to end horribly but Stiles is more concerned with lifting Jackson into his Jeep. Jackson isn’t heavy, but he isn’t all that light either. Stiles doesn’t even get a little bit of an illicit thrill as he wraps an arm around his neck and cradles his thighs with the other. He thinks he might be sick, actually, because Jackson’s never been the kindest person but he’s never been awful and if he dies because of Derek fucking Hale then what’s even the point?

He hears the door open and Allison’s voice—he’d been too preoccupied to hear the car pull up, he guesses. She holds the door open for him and then opens his Jeep for him and helps him lay Jackson out on the old, musty seats.

“Do you want me to drive?”

“I can do it.”

__________

Jackson looks grave in the fluorescence of the veterinary operating room. The stainless steel gleams, and Stiles shivers at how cold it looks. He hasn’t yet sat down. Allison left after Deaton proclaimed Jackson to be in no critical condition to make sure Scott hadn’t destroyed what’s left of Derek Hale’s heart.

All he can think is that 1. somebody ought to tell Danny, and 2. the fear in Jackson’s voice over the phone must be in him every day.

Deaton takes Stiles into his office, eyebrows arched in a perfect question never asked (“why do you care?”), but all he says is, “He’s sick.”

Stiles takes this opportunity to sink into a chair. The room is white, with cushy chairs and hanging plants that are somehow kept alive despite the fact that the only source of sunlight is a tiny window opposite the door. The desk is pristine—pale pinewood, sanded smooth with sharp edges. There is a metal cup holding pens that look like they bleed through the page and a small computer.

Deaton’s teeth are bright, bright white. “He should be fine, but his body is—”

“It’s killing him,” Stiles says, head down. “The bite. It’s not taking. He’s going to die and if he dies because his body doesn’t react right to the bite then what are the chances the same thing could have happened to Scott? To anyone?”

Deaton laughs.

His mouth is shut but his lips are definitely pulled up into an amused smile, the lightest of chuckles escaping. “No, Stiles. His body is reacting to the bite too well.”

Stiles’ eyes are wide, almost angry. “What?”

“The bite wants everything he has. His body seems to be perfect for it—the chemical makeup, his state of mind. It’s as though he should have been a born wolf but something was suppressing it.”

“That’s—that’s good, right?”

The doctor hits a few keystrokes on his laptop and his grin fades. “Not necessarily. It could still kill him. Have you noticed the way he glows? It’s very faint but it’s there.”  
And Stiles doesn’t understand because it’s not faint at all. Who wouldn’t notice? “Are you kidding? It’s like he’s burning. I could see it from across the school, probably.”

Deaton’s smile returns, this time accompanied by The Eyebrows, but he says, “Precisely. The wolf magic is working its way deeper and deeper into his body, penetrating every layer of him, and it’s consuming so much of his energy that the breaking of those chemical bonds manifest as heat and light. It’s incredibly productive and incredibly dangerous. That alone is volatile, but it also provides energy as it repairs any biological imperfections within him. The energy it gives is still unequal to what it takes, however, but he didn’t notice it until he passed out.”

Stiles is beyond done with this werewolf bullshit.

(No, he really isn’t.)

Deaton has maintained eye contact since Stiles looked up and straightened himself out of his slump in the chair. “What do I have to do?” Stiles says.

__________

Stiles gets a call in the middle of the night.

“Where are you?”

“Jackson?” Stiles rubs his eyes and sits up, preparing to put on some shoes. “What’s wrong?”

Jackson’s voice is gruff and heavy with sleep. “Stilinski. Aren’t you supposed to be here taking care of my dying ass? I convinced my parents to go on their trip. They ate up the fake discharge papers.”

Stiles barks out a laugh. “Okay, Princess. You’re not dying. You just need to relax until your body decides it isn’t going to burn up in some strange mojo fire shit.”

“I might be. Dying.”

“Go to sleep, Christ.”

__________

This camaraderie they develop is terrifying. Jackson is the drama queen of drama queens, but Stiles finds that being around him is just as enjoyable as staring at his tight abs and the veins of his neck. Jackson is funny, sometimes, and he can be sad, but usually he’s just mellow.

(Never in Stiles’ life has he seen Jackson mellow. Menacing would be a better word. Bitter. Intense.)

“Deaton says you can go off the weird herb potion thing in a few more days.”

They’re sitting on Jackson’s taupe leather sofa, watching some horrendous SyFy movie, and Jackson’s legs are on Stiles’ lap. 

It’s totally not weird.

Totally.

“Good, it fucking tastes like dirt.”

Jackson’s glow has all but vanished. Stiles expected to see flaws now that the light had dimmed, but it would seem that the bite had taken care of anything there might have been. Jackson is still perfect, and Stiles is still a ridiculously horny thing.

“I bet if you took it with something other than water it might actually taste like—not dirt.”

Jackson shakes his head. “Can’t. I don’t do juice. I hate sugar.”

Stiles throws his head back and laughs. Scott’s going to love hearing about this.

Later that week—Saturday morning—Stiles wakes up on Jackson’s floor. He vaguely remembers telling his dad he’d be at Scott’s, and then asking Scott to cover, and passing out after Jackson challenged him to a Lord of the Rings marathon (first installment of the Hobbit films included). (Stiles won. He thinks.)

His mouth is dry and his hair is probably sticking up fourteen million directions, but it doesn’t really matter. He lies there and watches the sunlight streaming in on Jackson’s bed.

Jackson is not in the bed.

For a moment Stiles panics and scrambles to his feet. “Jackson?” he calls. 

There is a brief emptiness, and then: “I’m in the kitchen, dipshit,” from down the stairs.

Stiles meanders down the hall and descends the stairs slowly at first. Then he smells bacon.

Jackson cooking is a sight, to be sure. He’s methodical and clean, every utensil gleaming, laid out on cloth napkins at the breakfast bar. 

“Trying to impress me, are you?” Stiles says, sliding onto a stool and resting his elbows on the bar. He cradles his chin in his hands, waggling his eyebrows.

“Shut up,” Jackson says. He hands Stiles a china plate and piles it with bacon and eggs and hash.

It’s hot and steaming and Stiles can’t stop laughing through the entire meal.

They clean up together (and totally don’t do cutesy shit like flick water at one another, of course not) and Stiles gathers his things.

“Remember,” he says to Jackson, who is putting away the china, “you need to drink the medicine tonight before you go to bed, and then you’re done. Go see Deaton in a few days and see if anything else comes up.”

“Yeah,” Jackson says. “Cool.”

Stiles freezes in the awkward atmosphere and leaves. The door swings shut, and the summer breeze wakes his skin.

__________

“Stiles!”

Scott is banging on his door. “Stiles!”

Stiles heaves himself up off of the sofa and unglues his eyes from the game.

“Fucking what?” Stiles snarls, jerking the door open. The porchlight momentarily blinds him—he’s been sitting in the dark consoling himself with baseball. He sat down after lunch; dusk is now falling. The tree limbs are still barely discernible against the fading sunset, like a watercolour.

“It’s Jackson,” Scott says (predictably), and Stiles’ heart skips a beat. 

“What’s wrong with him? What happened? Call Deaton, why aren’t you—”

Scott pushes Stiles back into the house, a hand on his chest. “Stiles, no. Lydia went to drop off a key he gave her and the door was torn off the hinges. I followed his scent into the woods but I don’t know what to do.”

Stiles is already pulling on some ancient pair of Chuck Taylors that probably don’t fit but he can’t really feel anything right now. He shoves his phone into his pocket and grabs his keys. “Scott, did you run here?”

“Well yeah, I—” 

“Never mind, get in the Jeep.”

Stiles sticks to the speed limit (barely) until he pulls in at the entrance to the Preserve. He and Scott take off. His heart is pounding, visceral and alive.

They wind through the trees, pausing every so often to let Scott regain the trail. His eyes glow bright gold. Their light is fading fast.

They run for nearly a quarter of an hour, and while that may be fine for Scott, Stiles is incredibly un-supernatural. He leans against a tree, heaving breaths. 

It doesn’t matter in the end, though, because Scott says, “I lost him.”

Stiles rests his forehead against the bark and does not speak, only thinks. (He doesn’t understand what’s happening, only that for whatever reason he cannot imagine losing this creature whom he has only admired from afar for the longest time to a blaze of light.)

And then, as the moon rises and night truly falls, he sees it.

Up on a hill, not far from them, is a small beacon of white light.

Stiles reaches Jackson gasping for breath, Scott a few paces behind, and the boy is almost angelic.

He is enveloped by an aura of white light that shimmers on his skin and ghosts over his hair. His eyes are closed, not tight but serenely, and his head is tilted upwards.

And he is warm, so warm. The cool summer night air is gone, replaced by a cold, searing heat that slices through the air around Stiles’ skin. There are no birds singing, no   
crickets chirping.

Right now the world is quiet, but for the steady hum of Jackson’s body.

Stiles approaches him and places a hand on his shoulder. He is almost afraid of burning himself. Jackson’s head moves to face him, eyes still closed. Stiles shuts his and kisses Jackson, and the wet, dark heat of Jackson’s mouth spreads into Stiles’.

“Jackson,” Stiles says softly, pulling away. “Open your eyes.”

He does.

One eye is blue, the other gold. The light surrounding him grows and grows before blinking out in a fraction of a second. Jackson is frozen, and then he gasps for a breath, falling forward and sinking into Stiles’ arms. 

Scott is blushing furiously.

__________

Deaton says, surprisingly, that Jackson is as good as new, that the ridiculous lightshow was the last of it. All the same, Stiles stays with Jackson that night.

Jackson’s bedroom is dark, with the curtains drawn shut and all lights turned off. It’s just the two of them in his bed, and Stiles still hasn’t been hit by the shock that it’s actually happening.

They kiss. A lot. Stiles often finds himself arching over Jackson, who lies in a nest of pillows, fiercely biting on Jackson’s lip.

And then Jackson whispers hotly into Stiles’ ear, “My parents won’t be home until Monday.”

That does it.

“Where?” Stiles groans. “Where are they?”

“The nightstand,” Jackson says. “What, you think I have time to leave them across the room?”

Stiles rolls his eyes and flails about for the nightstand drawer, resurfacing with a condom and lubricant clutched in his hand. 

“Aren’t you tired?” he says, sweet for just a moment.

“Yeah,” Jackson says, “but this is nothing.” And then he’s flipping Stiles over onto his back and kissing a hot trail down his neck, his torso, nipping at the waistband of his boxers. Stiles lets out a little laugh as the band snaps back to his hips. Jackson pushes himself forward to kiss Stiles’ mouth again, and he presses his crotch to Stiles’. Stiles feels Jackson’s hardening cock on his, the barest of friction sparking between the material of their underwear, and he bucks his hips a little. Jackson hisses and bites his lip.

They continue like this for a few more seconds before Jackson says, “Oh, for the love of God,” and sits up on his knees. He fixes Stiles with a wicked grin and leans down to clutch the waistband again with his teeth. Stiles can’t help himself from running his hands through Jackson’s hair, and when he pulls away his hands smell like sweat and musk. 

And then, shit, Jackson’s got Stiles’ cock in his mouth, and if it wasn’t rock-hard before it is now. Stiles arches his back and moans. It’s ridiculous, he thinks, the concept of having one’s genitalia in another person’s mouth. Or he thinks this, at least, until Jackson swirls his tongue around the head of his cock and Stiles yelps. 

“Fuck.”

Jackson extricates Stiles from his mouth and lifts himself up to look at Stiles. “Fuck? Would that go a little something like this?”

Stiles shivers as Jackson slides a pillow beneath his hips and smacks his ass (and, check, another kink added to the list). He pours some of the lube onto his fingers and takes his time coating them.

“Come on, then,” Stiles says.

This was the wrong (right) move, because Jackson has a finger in him like lightning, and then two, because it’s not as though this is Stiles’ first time doing this kind of thing. He tries not to move too much, wants to let Jackson pleasure him, but he wants it too bad.

“Well, well,” Jackson murmurs. “You seem to be a little impatient.” He teases Stiles’ hole one more time before sliding his fingers out and removing his own boxers and coating his cock with lube, mmm-ing all the while.

“Shit,” Stiles moans as Jackson slides into him. It’s been a while, damn, and Stiles is ready. Jackson is gentle and slow for all of two seconds before he sees the look on Stiles’ face. 

“If you want it rough, we can do that too.”

“Yespleasegod.”

And Jackson goes. He is not without mercy, but he doesn’t treat Stiles like a virgin (thank God). Stiles feels as though he is completely hollow, existing only in that space where something fills the void, and sparks run up and down his spine. He reaches for his cock and begins to stroke it slowly, desperately, and cries out as Jackson thrusts into him particularly energetically. 

“Dammit,” he whispers, but Jackson just laughs. He slows down a little, allows Stiles to calm down before regaining momentum.

“You can come whenever you need to, baby. I want to see it on your face.”

(Jackson’s own cocky fucking voice is goddamn turn-on.)

Stiles manages to hold on for a while longer, and then he’s frantically pumping his cock as Jackson maintains his rhythm, speeding up only slightly, and when Stiles comes, Jackson begins to pant. Stiles can’t believe how much he missed this (how long it’s been, how it’s so much better than the last time).

“Where?” Jackson says, eyes wild, staring into Stiles, and then at the ceiling, and then at Stiles again. “In you, or?”

“Whatever, I don’t care,” Stiles says, motionless, spent, but still incredibly turned on.

Jackson pulls out with what seems to be great effort, pulls the condom off, and pumps his cock, neck and back curved. Stiles reaches up to hold Jackson’s hips as he kneels over him, trailing down and fluttering his fingertips over Jackson’s ass.

Jackson comes all over Stiles’ chest, wordless but breathing heavily. When he’s done, he stays like that, staring up at the ceiling for a moment before collapsing onto his hands and pressing his lips to Stiles’.

“Well shit,” he says, and Stiles falls asleep with a faint smile.

__________

When Stiles wakes up on Sunday morning, Jackson has pulled the sheets up over them after cleaning him up, and Jackson has an arm sprawled over Stiles. The curtains have fluttered open, and a thin beam of sunlight falls on Jackson’s hand, dangling in front of Stiles’ eyes. Stiles feels a small movement and then Jackson is pressing a kiss to the back of his neck.

Stiles closes his eyes.


End file.
